


The Crush (Sit back, relax, sit back, relapse again)

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Lives, F/M, M/M, Time Travel, but not alongside burr, “Every Other Founding Father Gets To Grow Old”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-19 09:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: Aaron Burr dies at the age of 80 in 1836. He is old and of poor health, a previous stroke robbing mobility and mind from him. He can barely sign his own name. When he finally passes, it is called a mercy.Then, something strange happens.(Aaron Burr gets more time.Time to try and reverse the duel, to atone? Maybe he’ll do that. Maybe he won’t.)





	1. Bloodshed and Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

> Most italics from Richard Siken’s Crush
> 
> Title from the same, brackets from Panic! At the Disco’s Camisado.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not a happy story.

_It starts with bloodshed, always bloodshed, always the same running from something larger than yourself story, shoving money into the jaws of a suitcase, cutting your hair with a steak knife at a rest stop, and you're off, you're on the run, a fugitive driving away from something shameful and half-remembered. _

_They're hurling their bodies down the freeway to the smell of gasoline which is the sound of a voice saying I told you so._

* * *

Aaron Burr dies at the age of 80 in 1836. He is old and of poor health, a previous stroke robbing mobility and mind from him. He can barely sign his own name. When he finally passes, it is called a mercy.

Then, something strange happens. 

He’s dreaming, except he’s not. But he doesn’t know this, so the scene plays out, as usual. He is no stranger to nightmares. 

A man stands no more than ten paces from him, and the muscle memory, it’s there, brain yet to follow. Burr can’t see the man’s face, but knows what he must do. It does not occur to him to stop and ask why, he is a soldier first and person second— even after all the years. He had entered the war a child, emerged a man without fear. And he’s thankful for that. But behind the curtain, that fear has remained. Dormant. Asleep. Occasionally raising its head, like a volcano that makes the valley tremble and a vulture tilt its head. Like today, but he represses it the same way a toddler believes no one can see him if his eyes are closed. He may be a man at that first glance, but behind all the bravado is the same child who knew nothing of the world and despite this sought to burn it.

Something is shouted into the dimly lit morning— yes, that’s right, the sun is red and warning, pressing at his back, printing him a chalked outline that’s wrongly fit, more gold than white, obscenely arrogant, something so disfigured for the crime he’s about to commit— and all of a sudden the fear is in him. Time slows down. 

The fog over his mind lifts. He sees the man, properly, for the first time. 

It’s Alexander Hamilton. 

And Alexander Hamilton’s gun is far too wide to be an honest miss. Burr’s however, flies true. This circumstance was intentional, and the realisation hits like a body blow. 

Burr yells, but it’s too late.

* * *

_You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?_


	2. The Run for Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks maybe if he pretends it didn’t happen, it won’t be real. 
> 
> (He’s wrong.)

_A man takes his sadness and throws it away._

_But then he’s still left with his hands. _

* * *

He runs. Like before he tries to hide, learning nothing of his chance, grows out a beard in hopes of hiding his face from seeing eyes that follow him everywhere he goes. 

(He doesn’t know from who, not really. It’s not like he talks to anyone much these days.)

Jefferson hunts him down but can’t pin him. He retreats into a primal thing, that masculinity of self that is so fragile and yet so revered.

He dares to think that if he pretends such an event didn’t happen, no one will mention it and the universe will right itself. 

He hopes perhaps he can still make something of himself. Perhaps the pieces of his life can be rebuilt with his experience, a squint at the ghost of words on a chalkboard. The barest glimmer of hope, a candle in the night that glints devilishly at him, taunting him into going out on a whim. And he wants to take it, he does, wants to take the fire within himself and use his bones and fat and muscles as wick and wax to keep that possibility of happiness alight. Alive. 

The universe doesn’t treat him such a mercy. 

His political opponents drag him through mud as they did before, not so much opponents as predators, bullies, and while Burr, still, does not retaliate, he is tempted. That never used to happen before. But he is old, and men so set in their ways can rarely be swayed. He stays to himself, thinks this might work for now. 

But...

But. 

Nothing gets better. Like a true American, he heads west, and like a true American, his past catches up to him. 

He watches with amusement to mask sadness, as across the room the Hamilton legacy dances around the court room, owning the stage with less zeal than his father but words remaining in their passion, just as smart and biting. 

The woman he used once again for her money and ability, sneers, and he feels he has been running in place.

What reason did the Lord have, for bringing his dust back to this coil? Why was he pulled back together in some cheated Saintly reincarnation, for what? If it was for something other than a taunt, he wouldn’t know.

Aaron Burr dies at the age of 80 in 1836. 

He is old and of poor health, a previous stroke robbing mobility and mind from him.  He can barely sign his own name. 

When he finally passes, he hopes for peace.

* * *

_The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell._

_Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time. _

_ Forget the dragon, leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.  _


	3. Try and Change Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burr wakes up again, but it is earlier, and perhaps he can do more.

_ You do this, you do. You take the things you love and tear them apart or you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours. _

* * *

Because his brain likes to torture him, his eyes open to a lodging he hasn’t seen in over a century, to him.

For a while, it’s good. 

Then he meets Alexander Hamilton. 

And it’s like a fairytale from one’s childhood, a silken thing torn through in the night hanging by its threads in the morning. 

He remembers reading his daughter to sleep with the same hope that flares in Alexander Hamilton’s eyes.

And he’s so young, God, he’s so young. The war hasn’t touched him yet but Burr knows better now.  A war all of itself has already stirred Hamilton’s world, the darkness and strength Aaron had once dismissed as arrogance and sheer stupidity in this man clear as day.

But this is no man. Not yet. This is a boy of just nineteen playing a game of his own devising that Aaron knows could easily be the death of him.

(And Burr knows, just as Washington did, and will do, that some parts of Alexander whispered a longing that were at points louder than any other resonating bell in his mind.)

The years have shown Aaron that this mere boy is not all talk, not just a pretty face. 

This boy will lead an army, and even the most powerful of people will look to him for orchestration.

”Young man,” he starts, and feels almost giddy at the words, “Can I buy you a drink?”

And Alexander hangs off his words that night. Because Burr _knows_ him, knows the way that clever mind is only interested in what he himself agrees with. Burr is no stranger to telling people what they want to hear, in fact, he’s only gotten better at it with time. So he tries the best he can to slip the information Hamilton will need into his lowered voice, leaning in over his drink like he can see the future through the brew, because, in a way, he can.

He hopes it’s enough.

He tries his hand at befriending people rather than pushing them away. Yes, this is the way things should have been. Where they could all play nice and hedge all bets towards men no matter their character. Aaron saves lives, simply because he remembers the worst tragedies and plots ahead. Of course, some are lost entirely to his sickness, which cannot be helped. But Valley Forge is accounted for, he notes what it could become to him, and had to Burr himself, to Alexander, almost nonchalantly. The distant expression that passes over his face for a moment is enough to assure Burr that something will be done. It’s not much, but the win sings in Burr’s blood like too many hits of laudanum.

He’s doing so much. Is this what it feels like to play God?

Is this how Hamilton felt, that first time?

He dislikes that he’s made this timeline’s Hamilton a puppet, but some things must be sacrificed. This Hamilton is much tamer, more amicable to his advice after all.

It’s when 1780 rolls around that Aaron is faced with a problem.

John Laurens has never liked him, not really. And it would seem that when Aaron tries to smoothly push Hamilton away from of Elizabeth Schuyler, this is the last straw.

How can’t he see? Laurens knows Hamilton’s nature by now, surely he knows this is saving both of them from heartbreak. This Hamilton and the first Hamilton are truly the same in this regard, Burr is only doing what is better for both of them in the end.

John snarls at him like a wild animal and tells him he can’t treat Hamilton like a child. Like Britain did the colonies before the revolution.

Burr... doesn’t know what to say to that.

This was apparently all he needed to see, because John makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and stalks away.

Time never stands still.

Later, much, much later, Hamilton stands ten paces in front of him. The rising sun reveals how pale his face is, but instead of the tired resignation of before, undercut by a dimly lit fear, fear that Aaron recognises intimately as a shared emotion he too once used as the pellets in his gun, one that kept him shackled to the ground until the band snaps...

There is rage in that expression. Betrayal.

Aaron has changed too much, pressed too far, controlled beyond forgiveness. This will never do.

This time, Alexander is the one to pull the trigger.

* * *

_I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have these luxuries._


	4. Softer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He comes closer.
> 
> The world’s not ready for both of them, not like this.

_ He was not dead yet, not exactly parts of him were dead already, certainly other parts were still only waiting for something to happen, something grand, but it isn't always about me, he keeps saying, though he's talking about the only heart he knows- He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. _

_There's a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place- well then, game over. _

* * *

He tries something else.

Tries to examine Hamilton’s actions rather than change them.

Empathy’s never really been his strong suit, but he’s willing to give it a try. The world is wide enough for the both of them, after all. He just has to do everything right.

And he does, have to, that is.

But it could be said that he gets too close. 

He learns Hamilton’s deeper secrets, gains his trust as a friend, and, accidentally, finds himself gaining trust as a lover.

There is no Maria Reynolds. 

Alexander teaches Burr how to love again. He hasn’t touched Theodosia, not in this run or the last, still to overtaken in grief to think about tainting the few good memories he had of her. 

Alexander reveals to him things even in his old age he has never even realised. The toll on his soul at the death of his mother, that fear and restriction eating at him until he bit back. There’s only so much you can corner a frightened animal before it pounces. Burr learns to what extent the label “orphan” cuts Hamilton, takes away his achievements and throws him back to his roots as a form of inescapable mental torment.

John Laurens is still disgusted with him. But it’s okay. He has Alexander.

Not for long. They are found one night by a Mister James Reynolds. 

And Burr can’t have that, so he fucks off to London for a while until things calm down. 

He doesn’t take Hamilton with him, and Hamilton doesn’t give chase, so he figures that— like Maria— he didn’t exactly mean much. 

The paper he writes surely makes it seem that way. 

Luckily, the death penalty for homosexual acts is no longer in effect, but they go to prison for just under a decade.

Alexander Hamilton lives past fifty, but as soon as he is freed from prison he challenges Aaron to a duel. His eyes burn with hatred. And hurt. 

Burr can’t help it. He’s filled with the same passion. 

The two of them point their guns and they don’t miss. Burr was getting a little too old for this anyway. Best restart.

He’s grown used to never reaching peace, at this point.

* * *

_I’m sorry I came to your party  
_

_And seduced you_

_And left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing. _


	5. Merciful Silence that Could

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end. 
> 
> it isn’t pretty, but perhaps the bruises could write a sonnet, in time. oh, in time.

_«You must want something, just tell me, and it’s yours.»_

_ But I can't look at him, can hardly speak. _

_Let's not talk about it, let's just not talk._

* * *

He’s too tired.

There must be a simpler way to attain what he feels is retribution for his sin. A better, more adept in the passion of being human while still raising an arm toward heaven. His previous acts have granted him only hell and torture. 

What to do? 

He’s never really bothered with effort like this before. He doubts he will again. His soul isn’t meant for this kind of work, and the body knows. His soul is the kind taken to smoothing over cracks, avoiding ladders and taking care in smelling bouquets, mindful of the buckets of water that contain them. While not superstitious, he has learnt things during this time. He knows this cannot continue, and the knowledge burns. 

A boy runs about the courtyard, brimming with people, rich and poor intertwined to show the true face of man without reservation. He is fast, flighty and without the muscle memory of a man who has worked hard for his supper, though the reaching, rakish nature of his eyes and limbs, always searching, always demanding more, more, more... Burr recognises this, has seen it so many times it is as familiar as his own shadow, more dependant than his own signature in practiced hands. 

So the boy is looking for someone. 

Not in the way a child cries for its mother, the heedless ambition in the boy’s movement sure and adaptable. His bones are not tired. 

Or perhaps they have simply grown used to the weight of living. 

The cobwebs and the ivy don’t hold him down but pull him up. Infrastructure and strong beams.

The boy is a young man, yes, but isn’t it sweeter to think of him so untouched by the world?

Burr is too tired for this. Involving himself so, it has taken all he has. And he didn’t have much in reserve when this all began. He’s not sure if it even began with his first end, if perhaps the tragedy that was Alexander Hamilton in fact came into effect long before Aaron Burr held the weight of a duelling pistol in his own wretched hand. 

The boy is looking for someone. Perhaps a man, perhaps a legend.

He refuses to be that man. 

Maybe now he will live with certainty, for when did he ever have advice so warranted it could save a life-

“Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, sir?”

His blood goes cold. 

Thickly, and with deep hurt at the sheer delight in the boy’s tone, he dares to look up. 

But the boy doesn’t even seem to be speaking to him. Rather he has said it to a crowd in hopes that someone would acknowledge him. Unbidden, he huffs a laugh to himself. Of course. 

Aaron Burr slips out of the mass of people, keeps his head low, and, as he gains distance, a sum of over ten paces and more, sees the boy deflate. But all is not lost. 

The Schuyler sisters are wandering through New York at this time, not yet hounded by the men Burr had seen gravitate together. He watches as the boy draws himself up, etches a finer version of himself into the air and hopes the incantation holds. 

“Pardon me, are you perchance Schuyler?”

This will do. 

It’s an old saying, isn’t it, never meet your heroes. The Aaron Burr that Hamilton heard of on the island is better that, a story Hamilton can without guilt aspire to.

(And now, Alexander Hamilton gets to grow old.)

Times pass. Then, peace. 

Mercy.

* * *

_Explaining will get us nowhere.  
_

_I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor, _

_pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you _

_but the victory is that I could not stomach it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading until the end. 
> 
> i think perhaps this could be the foundations for a bigger, more fleshed out piece, but, for now it’s a nice little snapshot into an idea.


End file.
